


Better

by ClockworkSpades



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Punk/Nerd, Underage Drinking, delinquent!Arthur x nerd!Alfred, delinquent/nerd, highschool, technically it's just a mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 16:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkSpades/pseuds/ClockworkSpades
Summary: Arthur was a rock. He was a spiky, troubled rock, but he was Alfred’s rock.





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually from a sentence prompt on my tumblr account. Delinquent aus aren't usually my thing but I liked switching this about a bit.

Alfred’s parents didn’t like Arthur.

They had liked him once; when he was younger and cheerful and more reserved. He was in the year above, the first person to talk to Alfred when he’d moved to England eight years ago. And in Alfred’s opinion, his first friend.

It seemed like Arthur had changed a lot in that time. At first, his parents had been happy and excited to know that Alfred was already making friends, especially with a boy who was kind enough to help Alfred find the right bus when he forgot which one he was supposed to take. But they grew up. Alfred stayed much the same. He was still hyper-focused on his studies, still had niche interests that only Arthur listened to, still clumsy and still had a little bit of trouble expressing himself in front of others.

Arthur, however, had changed. It had started with a few piercings. Then a leather jacket instead of his blazer. Then dress code detentions had turned into late work detentions, skipping school detentions, and one suspension for getting into a fist fight with another lad in the car park. Alfred could hear people in their form group whisper about how different Arthur was from the nice, quiet guy he used to be, how much he’d changed.

His parents had wanted him to stop spending time with Arthur. They hadn’t said it in so many words, only implied it. They thought he was a bad influence. That his fighting and skipping and  _antisocial behaviour_  would lead Alfred down the wrong path. But as long as Alfred’s grades were doing fine and he wasn’t getting into trouble, then they couldn’t force him.

Everyone thought Arthur was a bad influence. Even their form tutor, who saw the most of his and Arthur’s interactions, had pulled him aside before lunch once and asked him if he was okay. If Arthur wasn’t being mean to him. He even had the audacity to imply that Alfred was only friends with him because he was too scared to say no to Arthur.

But Alfred knew the truth.

Arthur hadn’t changed. His behaviour had been a way to lash out, to get some relief from so much internalised anger that came with having shitty parents who didn’t care what he did either way. But he still helped Alfred get home. He still checked that Alfred was doing his homework. Most of the time Arthur was making sure that Alfred didn’t get into trouble, not trying to get him to join in.

Arthur was a rock. He was a spiky, troubled rock, but he was Alfred’s rock. He was the only person who didn’t ask Alfred questions like he knew what was best for him. He let Alfred ramble about the latest episode of tv shows he liked and asked genuine questions instead of just saying “that’s nice” and shutting him up. He only asked about Alfred’s schoolwork to make sure he was keeping on top of it and not because he needed to know that Alfred was on track for As. He laughed with Alfred, not at him, and never had Alfred felt like he was inferior when Arthur was around.

Most of all, when he was with Arthur, he didn’t think so much.

Alfred didn’t know what was wrong with him. Arthur had suggested a great deal of things, googled stuff for him and laughed when sites like Web MD gave the only option as some kind of tumour, and insisted time and time again that there was _nothing wrong with him_. If he needed help, they could get him help, but that didn’t mean he was broken.

He was the only person who said stuff like that to him. Alfred had a tendency to overthink, to overanalyze. He stared at homework tasks that were only cheap practise for exams and worked himself up into a panic over whether he was using the right words or not, if he was right about a certain fact, even getting to the point of doubting everything he said was even accurate and he’d imagined the whole lesson he was working on. His parents had told him to focus, to stop crying like a child, just keep working. When he’d come home with an essay just two marks off an A+ that he was incredibly proud of they’d said he could try harder next time. He was stressed, all the time, he had been since he started upper school and Arthur had commented several times that he was sure Alfred was going to get an ulcer before he even finished his a-levels. Which had been a mistake since he’d begun then genuinely to worry that all his stress would cause an ulcer every time he worked himself up over a typo.

But then Arthur would text him. Say he was going to go out and stargaze and practise his guitar and Alfred could join him if he wanted.

So Alfred would. Arthur would have a beer he took from the fridge that his parents didn’t notice, he’d push Alfred away when he asked again if he could try it, and they’d sit on the roof of a multi-storey at the corner of town and watch stars while Arthur played his guitar.

“How’s the essay going?”

Arthur’s voice was soft. It was always soft when he asked about school. Alfred wanted to be annoyed and think it patronising, but it was accompanied by the gentle strumming of his guitar and a look of disguised concern that he couldn’t find annoying.

He picked up some loose pebbles, tossing them at the raised wall at the side of the roof.

“Awful.”

Arthur kept playing, a quiet snort his first response.

“Yeah. Essays are shit.”

Alfred laughed. He should’ve curled up, should’ve felt his chest tighten with worry and panic and let his mind run over with possible scenarios and answers to his failing essay. But he laughed. A high, peeling laughter coupled with hiccups of giggles for Arthur’s blunt and ridiculous reply, smiling even more when he glanced over to see Arthur grinning right alongside him.

Alfred’s laughter died down into a sigh, his lower lip pulled between his teeth.

His mind still spun with endless thoughts. He’d never been able to shut his mind off, not since he could remember. It was always loud and contradicting, an endless stream of thoughts and ideas that took over whenever there wasn’t anything immediately occupying his attention. But Arthur’s quiet guitar playing could lull the thoughts into a murmur. Still there, always still there, but not deafening.

Arthur was playing something Alfred didn’t recognise; maybe something improvised, maybe messing around with the chords of a familiar tune. It was probably just a cover of some obscure band Alfred didn’t know. But he didn’t care. It was soothing on Arthur’s beaten up acoustic, and Arthur’s steady, deep breaths were enough to ground him too.

He didn’t like to stare at Arthur. He knew it was rude, and weird, and frankly just a little frighteningly intimate. But he liked to watch him play. The way his hands moved so easily on the strings of his guitar, the way his breathing would even with the rhythm, the way he’d sometimes start humming subconsciously and Alfred could quietly try to decipher if Arthur was humming the vocal line or another instrument of the band.

Arthur was an art piece. He had a clear outer shell, the thing everyone took for granted when they grazed over his pierced eyebrow and worn leather jacket and steel toed boots. It took you time, a long time, to look at him and start to see the other things. Like the deepness of his green eyes, or the roughness of his hands from playing his guitar endlessly. The scar on his lower lip from a time he never mentioned. The way the corner of his mouth would tilt up just slightly when he was truly content.

Alfred knew a lot about Arthur. It came with the package of being best friends. He just didn’t like to dwell so long on how he felt about every detail.

“What are you thinking?” Arthur spoke up again, soft, quiet voice carried over his music.

Alfred looked at him for a long moment, looked at Arthur’s carefully kept gaze on the stars above. Arthur wouldn’t startle him by looking him in the eye when he was thinking. But what was he to respond when the subject of his thoughts had asked the question.

He swallowed, looking away and up towards the sky again.

“Just…stuff.”

Arthur’s playing slowed, but didn’t stop. From the corner of his eye Alfred could see Arthur glance in his direction.

“Bad stuff?”

“No…Just stuff.”

“Too much stuff?”

Arthur knew him well too. Alfred didn’t like to admit it, didn’t like to think of himself as a burden or so easily read. But Arthur understood him.

He looked back to Arthur, staring into those deep, questioning green eyes. Arthur would never push, never insist. He’d never made Alfred tell him what was wrong, just sat with him until he felt like talking. Everyone said he was so tough, so cold, so hard and shut off and mean and such a menace. But to Alfred, he was open, honest. There was nothing but understanding in those eyes.

And Alfred smiled.

“No. It’s just one thought.”

It was just a small smile, just a little tilt of his lips. But it was there, and it was warm, and it was only for Arthur to see. And Arthur smiled back.

“Just one?”

“Just one.” Alfred brought his legs up, wrapping his arms around his knees and perching his chin on his arms as he looked at Arthur.

Arthur had told him many times that Alfred was the bravest person that he knew. He couldn’t imagine why; he hadn’t done anything courageous, nothing that traditional bravery would bring to mind. He couldn’t even bring himself to say things unless he was alone with Arthur, and even then there were things he wanted to say to Arthur and lacked the confidence to do so. He wanted to thank Arthur for being there for him. He wanted to tell him how glad he was that they were friends. He wanted to tell him how much he meant to him.

But maybe he didn’t have to say all of that in so many words. He was tired of a life with too many words; too many hours of studying, too many subjects, too many words swirling about his head all the time. Except from when he was with Arthur.

Few words had been a comfort. A freedom. It wasn’t so scary to look into Arthur’s eyes and tell him how he felt with only a few words.

“It’s better…I’m better. I’m better when I’m with you.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment, a long moment. Long enough that Alfred felt he should’ve started to worry. But it was Arthur. Arthur had never once given him reason to worry. And he still didn’t. He just smiled his easy, lopsided smirk and slowly looked back to the stars.

“You’re better when you’re with me.” He repeated, slow and quiet, like the words had meant some great deal to him.

Alfred wasn’t analysing his reaction though, just following his gaze up and looking for constellations.

“I’m better when I’m with you.” He repeated.

He didn’t look when he heard the gravel under Arthur shift, he could feel Arthur’s body closer to his own, the head of the guitar in front of his legs and Arthur’s forearm resting against his shin as he resumed playing.

“What are you thinking now?” Arthur asked.

_That your shoulder is touching mine._

_That your guitar playing is perfect._

_That I want to stay in this moment forever._

“The stars are beautiful.”

Arthur hummed, a quiet agreement, still focused on his guitar.

He’d jokingly named it Al once. He’d told Alfred how musicians sometimes named their instruments, that it was just a silly thing of connecting with music. Alfred had laughed, said it sounded stupid. So Arthur had said what if he named it after him, would it be stupid then.

It was. They’d both laughed and Arthur had shoved him for being a twat. But he’d declared he was calling his ridiculous guitar Al then, in honour of his best friend.

His playing slowed, Alfred was hardly aware of it until Arthur shifted and carefully put the guitar down. He glanced over, wondering if Arthur was about to get up, say he’d take Alfred home now. It usually went that way; he grew tired of playing and Alfred grew tired in general and Arthur would drive him home and say goodnight.

But he didn’t, he just rested his hands in his lap and turned to look at Alfred.

In the quiet, he saw again how close they were. It was a little cold, being late, but Alfred could still feel bodyheat where their shoulders brushed. Arthur blinked and he could see every eyelash, the faint freckles on his cheeks, the scar on his lip.

He’d spent a lot of time thinking about that scar.

“What are you thinking now?”

It was a murmur now, a soft, barely-there request and Alfred tried his best to look at Arthur’s eyes and not his lips. He didn’t know what he was thinking. There was no music, no homework, no pressure. There was just Arthur, staring at him, asking him a question he didn’t have the answer to.

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

Arthur’s hand was on the back of his neck, fingertips cold but palm warm. He pulled him in, gently angling his head and Alfred let his eyes shut and Arthur hold him there as their lips brushed in a soft, barely-there kiss.

“How about now?”

The murmur was against his lip, he could feel the movements of Arthur’s mouth, feel the breath on his skin. His mind was still blank. Nothing more than Arthur’s eyes and Arthur’s lips and the overwhelming feeling of utter contentment.

“…I want to kiss you again.”

So he did.


End file.
